


Stay (The Past Is Just That)

by luninosity



Series: The Epic Universe of Porn, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Trauma, and Love [7]
Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) RPF
Genre: Comfort, Confessions, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Hope, Light BDSM, Love, M/M, Memories, Panic Attack, Past Abuse, Porn With Plot, Role Reversal, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-04
Updated: 2012-11-04
Packaged: 2017-11-17 17:26:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/554090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luninosity/pseuds/luninosity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael has a request, because he wants to understand. So James tries to be the top. Mention of past non-con, James having a slight panic attack, protective Michael being protective; sex followed by emotional hurt/comfort followed by more sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stay (The Past Is Just That)

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Eve 6’s “Friend Of Mine.” This is actually one of my favorites in this series, I think...

The morning had been cold. Unseasonably so, in fact. The sun hadn’t bothered to peek out all day, and misty fog wandered around the mansion set like a stray cat searching silently for a home.

Michael’d always enjoyed the cold. He liked the bite in the air, the sharpness that said, to his skin, yes, the world is bright and alert and looking back at you. He knew James thought he was mildly insane, on the rain-filled days when he walked around in a t-shirt and jeans, but then James liked sunshine and heat and basking in glittering light even though it turned all those freckles bright pink and made Michael chase him around with sunblock and aloe for hours on end.

Some days he vaguely wondered how they put up with each other. And then he saw James smile at him—like right now, that quick sideways glance that said _I’m here, I like looking at you, I love you_ , as they headed over to lunch—and he fell in love all over again.

They were walking in unison, despite differences in leg length, through the clinging fog. Not on purpose. Just something that happened naturally. And made him smile, every time.

Today, he’d decided that he liked the cold for a different reason. Of course they were wearing the nondescript mansion-training-days sweatsuits, and of course the cold helped keep said sweatsuits from becoming hideously warm, but mostly it meant that he could keep the sleeves rolled down without James becoming suspicious.

Well, not too suspicious, anyway. Any other day he’d’ve pushed up the sleeves regardless, which James of course knew, judging from the curious way blue eyes were watching his arms, but today he had something planned. A surprise.

He waited, considerately, until James was done eating. Then shoved up one sleeve, idly, as if he’d forgotten to think about it.

He knew the exact second that James noticed, because the sky-colored eyes widened with shock. “You—is that my—you wore one of my—“

“I wore them both, actually.” He pushed up the other sleeve, too, as casually as possible because James was staring. Revealed the second of James’s black leather wrist cuffs, securely fastened around his arm. “They're decorative.”

“Oh, my god.”

“So you approve?”

“I...can we go back to your trailer now? I mean right now. Immediately. _Now_.”

“And do what?” He tried not to hold his breath, asking. Not in his usual tone. A genuine question.

So that James could tell him what to do.

He watched the tone register, through the chilly layers of mist. James blinked. Swallowed. “You—are you asking me to—”

“Yes?” He hadn’t actually meant that one to be a question, but James had sounded just a little too hesitant, there. “You did say—I mean, we said I’d do this once. For you. And I thought—I was trying to surprise you.”

“Oh…well, you did.” James licked his lips, probably without even noticing. Michael had a mental catalogue of all those different motions, the various ways that that tongue flirted with pink skin when James was thinking about something, and this one looked like a cross between mostly number ten, which was pure nervousness, and a little bit of number two, which meant unadulterated determination.

He honestly wasn’t certain how to read that particular combination. Was there something else he should do, or say? Was he making James uncomfortable, asking for this? Trying to understand?

Maybe it’d been a very stupid idea.

But James seemed to have made up his mind, despite the nervousness, because he looked right at Michael, horizonless eyes suddenly hot and unwavering, and Michael felt every single atom of his body snap to attention, as all that brilliant blue heat focused directly on him. “All right, then. Just remember, you asked me for this.”

“Yes,” Michael managed to say, and, shocked, realized that he’d almost added a _sir_ to the end of that agreement. The blue eyes were still watching him, and James put out one hand, curled it around Michael’s wrist, over the leather, and squeezed, not too hard, but enough to send shivers of sensation all the way up his arm.

“Go back to your trailer. Take off your clothes. But leave these on.” One more squeeze. He’d never heard that particular tone before, had never imagined James giving orders like this, fuck, _commanding_ him, in that voice, and Michael found himself abruptly afraid that he wouldn’t, actually, make it to the trailer.

He tried to talk, in the hope that this would prove distracting. “You said—you are coming, too, right?” Oh, no, that was just pathetic.

“Of course.” James didn’t, quite, smile. “But maybe I’ll make you wait for me first. Anyway I want you naked. And thinking about everything I might be planning to do. Clear?”

“Oh god yes.”

“Go on, then.”

He might’ve set some sort of speed record sprinting across the distance to his trailer. But James had told him to go. And to be naked. He could still hear that particular order in his head. And he didn’t mind.

He lost the clothing as fast as possible, and then stood there wondering what James was doing and how long he might have to wait and whether he’d gotten naked too soon, because the air was kind of cold in his trailer, because he’d never bothered to turn up the heat.

The familiar old brown couch stared back at him, undisturbed by the cold or the nakedness. Then again, that couch had already been intimately involved in certain things, sagging cushions and all; they probably couldn’t scandalize it any more.

Well, maybe they could. He had absolutely no idea what James had in mind. He wished that James would hurry up, so that he could find out.

He spent a minute thinking about some of the things they’d enjoyed recently, when he’d done them to James. James wouldn’t—no, probably not. For one thing, they hadn’t exactly planned this in advance. James wouldn’t have brought certain things along.

He might not have minded, though, if they had. He’d hoped that James would see this, this offer, the way he’d meant it: he wanted to know, wanted to understand, what James felt. The desire that made him hold out slim arms for punishing handcuffs, or lift those hips and let Michael spank him until all the golden freckles shone red.

He knew how _he_ felt about that, of course, and those feelings were definitely good ones. James was his. Inarguably. In every way.

He’d wondered, sneaking the wrist cuffs into his bag that morning, whether the reversal would work at all. Whether he’d be able to take the idea of himself, following James’s orders, seriously.

He wasn’t wondering about that anymore.

At which point the door opened, and James appeared, still fully dressed, and also holding what looked like a cup of coffee.

Coffee? He was about to explode on the spot, just thinking about James telling him what to do in that unfairly attractive voice, and James had stopped to find coffee?

“You—”

“Is there a problem?” James shut the door, the click of the lock definitive in the chill of the air. Looked Michael up and down, blue eyes intent, appraising, studying every inch of him, and Michael felt his mouth go dry.

“Um…no.”

“Good. I did also stop by my trailer and pick up the lube, you know. I’m not opposed to making you wait for me, but I’m not just being mean to you; I did pretty much follow you, and then I remembered that we’d used up the one you were hiding in here.”

He wasn’t sure what to say to that. Thank you for explaining? For remembering? He certainly hadn’t.

“And then two of the interns attacked me with coffee on the way over here. In case you were wondering. Did you tell them I get cold easily? Because I swear they stalk me every time the temperature changes. With hot beverages in both hands.”

“Um…” The answer was yes, in fact, but he’d never been planning to _tell_ James that.

But those hot blue eyes flicked up to settle on his face, fixing him to the spot, and James added, “Answer me,” and Michael couldn’t say anything other than, “Yes?”

“I thought so.” James set the coffee cup down on the closest surface. “So…you did listen to me, then.”

“Yes?” At some point he’d recall some other words.

“And you did wait for me. Naked.”

“Yes?” Okay, maybe not at this point.

James stood there watching him, and smiled, and suddenly it didn’t matter that James was shorter than he was, or friendlier, or more usually the one who asked Michael to pin him down on the bed and make him beg, because that smile told them both exactly who was in charge, and it wasn’t Michael.

The word he was searching for, he thought suddenly, was masterful.

And he might be in a hell of a lot of trouble, because the only thought currently possessing his brain involved the desire for James to master him.

As if hearing that thought, James lifted an eyebrow at him, entirely unruffled and self-possessed and in charge, and Michael felt the sudden urge to forget the whole role-playing idea and just beg James to fuck him, right there, on the much-used couch, just because of that look.

He didn’t, though. Made himself wait, instead. Because he did want to know what this felt like, what James wanted from him. And maybe, just a tiny bit, because he wanted to know for himself. Because he couldn’t help the odd little thrill that raced up his spine, when James walked over to him, the corners of those lips curving up speculatively. “Turn around. Hands behind your back.”

He spun around instantly. Something about that voice. How had he never known how good James was at this?

“You did surprise me. And I do like seeing these on you—” One fingertip, delicately, traced the edge of black leather across his wrist. Michael sucked in air. When had he started holding his breath?

“—but you know that wearing them separately really defeats the purpose. They fasten together—like this—for a reason, you recall.”

Maybe he did. Except not now, because he couldn’t focus on anything except the fingers currently tugging his wrists together. Binding his hands in place. So that he couldn’t move them, unless James allowed him to.

He could feel his pulse speeding up, at that thought. At the idea of James telling him, in that astonishing voice, voluptuous and smoky and inflexible as tinted glass, exactly what he was allowed to do.

He spent a second being shocked at how badly he wanted that, at the clarity of that desire to belong to James, completely, to show James just how much of Michael was his. Jesus. Was this how James felt, all the time, when they did this?

“Better,” James observed, approvingly. “You can turn back around. And look at me when you do.”

He moved more slowly this time, off-balance in part because of the hands—strange how much of a difference that made, he thought; the sheer knowledge of his own inability to free himself made his legs shake, and he hoped James hadn’t noticed—and in part just because he was afraid he’d meet that commanding blue gaze and embarrass himself by ending everything on the spot.

Didn’t happen, though. Not quite. Not even when he registered the fact that James was now shirtless, all the tiny gilded freckles catching the yellow gleam of the unsubtle overhead lighting.

There were still pants, though. They stopped him from following the trail of light all the way down that left hip. Why was James still wearing unfairly interfering pants?

James reached out and ran a single finger along his lips, down his throat, across his chest. Lower. Stopped just before touching his cock. Michael actually groaned out loud, and that might’ve been embarrassing, too, except he was mostly beyond embarrassment by now.

“On your knees, I think.”

“…what?”

“You don’t listen well, do you? On your knees. Now.”

The command hung in the air like iron and velvet; and Michael dropped to the thinly-carpeted trailer floor so fast his knees actually hurt with the impact. And he didn’t even care. Fuck.

James studied him for a minute, still perfectly collected and cool, despite all the intensity in those burning-ocean eyes. Fuck, Michael thought again. He might have to take notes. He’d thought he’d been getting good at taking charge, at being dominant in the bedroom, but this…He wanted to do whatever James wanted. Whatever James ordered him to do. He wanted to…submit. To James. Dear _god_.

“Good,” James said, thoughtfully, and then put a hand on Michael’s head. “Pants off. Mine, that is. Obviously.”

Without hands? “I—”

“With your mouth.”

Oh, god. He stared up at James for a second, speechless, while the conflicting impulses of _you want me to do WHAT?_ and _yes please anything you say_ collided in his head. Must’ve been a second too long; the fingers, on his head, curled into his hair, not quite tightly enough to hurt. “Making me wait?”

He whispered “No” without even thinking about it, at that. Okay. He could do this. Also, he definitely _was_ going to have to take notes. Was this what James wanted from him, that unquestioning authority that reached into all his bones and took control, so cleanly that he couldn’t begin to mind giving in? The sheer forcefulness that ignited fires of need under his skin, the need to listen, to obey, to be _good_ when told what to do?

He thought momentarily about those first few times, all his own hesitance and concerned pauses. Found himself astounded that James had listened to him at all. Next time, though…

At least they’d both been dressed in those training-montage sweatsuits; drawstrings and elastic proved more easy to manipulate than he’d expected, with teeth and lips. James didn’t say anything, which probably meant that he was doing well enough; the feeling of fabric against his mouth, warm from all that freckled skin, was awkward and new, yes, but somehow, also, shockingly, a sensation he didn’t mind.

After he’d tugged James’s pants down, exposed pale skin hovered at eye level, and he leaned forward and kissed the inside of one thigh, quickly, on impulse, and then held his breath.

James smiled again, at that; Michael could hear it in his voice, dark and liquid and ever so slightly amused. “Enthusiastic, are you? Go on, then.”

The hand on his head urged him forward, and he parted his lips for James’s cock, hot and insistent and filling his mouth, sliding down into his throat, and he tried to make it good, stroking, licking, all the things he thought he remembered James liking on other occasions, not that there’d been that many occasions, because James was much better at this than he was and always very quick to offer, and suddenly that lack of experience felt like a terrible omission.

James held his head in place, and pushed a little deeper, and Michael, unprepared, almost choked, and then forced himself to relax, to breathe, and it wasn’t a bad feeling, not at all, being this full, letting James fuck his mouth, harder now, wet and messy and desperate, and suddenly he realized how badly his own cock was aching, craving release, needing James to touch him, to say that he could come.

He must’ve made a sound, at that, because James stopped and pulled back, pausing at the end to rest just the tip of all that hardness against Michael’s lips, sticky with desire. “Do you want me to fuck you? Like this? On your knees?”

The yes was right there, at the edge of his tongue, but so was that inviting heat, and he couldn’t speak. Just licked James’s cock again, hoping that would be enough of an answer.

“Hmm. Of course, I could leave you here, waiting, and make you watch me, first. Would you like that? I could.” Those tantalizing fingers brushed his cheek, lightly; Michael felt himself trembling. “I could come like this. All over you. You did use the word decorative, earlier; I can imagine you _decorated_ , for me. With me. What do you think?”

He couldn’t think. Anything. Anything at all. That voice, that image, had gone all through his body and replaced every single molecule with quivering want.

“Not talking?” James used the fingers to tip his chin up, getting Michael to look at him. There was a hint of concern in the blue depths now, worry like sea-spray and thunder over turbulent oceans, and Michael remembered to breathe and collected phrases out of the corners of his disarrayed thoughts.

“You—anything you want, please—I’m fine, you’re wonderful, I love you—”

The troubled waters eased, just a fraction, at the words. “Ah. Still here.”

“Yes. James?”

“Yes?”

He wanted to ask when and how and where James had learned to do this, why James had never done this before, why he hadn’t known that James was fucking _amazing_ at being the dominant one in the bedroom, or the dilapidated on-set trailer, for that matter, but there were other things he was curious about, too, and somehow those thoughts got all tangled up and what came out was, “You know you could…if you wanted to…you always like it when I…”

“You want me to spank you?”

He couldn’t quite read that tone, and the stormcloud eyes shifted to look past his head, just for a moment, when he tried to peer up into them. “Um…I think so. Yes. I want to know…I mean, what you feel when I…you know what I mean.” At least, he hoped so.

James breathed in, and out again, very slowly. “All right. Stand up. And turn around; I’m not leaving you in handcuffs for this.”

“You’re not?” He got up. Did as instructed, despite wobbly legs that threatened to give way at any time. “Why not?”

“Because…you’ve never done this before. And I want you to—you should have your hands free. Just trust me, please; it’ll be…easier.”

“All right. I do trust you; you know that.” Outside, the fog coiled up gleefully against the glass, settling down into cozy watchfulness. The world, beyond the small heated space of Michael’s trailer, might as well not have existed. Just him, and James. And the companionable fog.

“Hands on the back of the couch. And don’t move.”

When he leaned over, the immanence of what he was asking for abruptly became very real; he left his hands in place, and attempted not to shiver, feeling ridiculously exposed and vulnerable, waiting for the sting of that first encounter, James’s hand against his bare flesh.

But James touched him gently, at first, tracing the line of his spine, all the way down his back, fingers soft and oddly reassuring. And when James asked quietly, “Still fine?” the words, wrapped in warm puffs of air, nestled up against his skin, encouragingly.

“Still fine,” he whispered back, and then the fingers drifted away from his hip, and he tried not to tense all over, anticipating.

Despite all the expectation, he wasn’t quite ready.

The snap of skin against skin echoed around the room, bouncing off plastic walls, and he could feel the imprint of James’s hand even after the weight went away, burning there, startling and visceral and terrifyingly sweet.

He might’ve moved. Might’ve lifted his hips, in the lingering heat of it, without meaning to.

He heard James breathe in, an unusually ragged gulp of air, and Michael tried to brace himself for another impact, for the curious new tingling that made him want to flinch away and open up and never move again and beg for more. For whatever James wanted to do next.

But abruptly there was an absence of warmth behind him, and he heard James take a step away, clumsy in a way that James, for all his normal exuberance, never was clumsy, and the thump of one leg bumping into a side table echoed around the too-small trailer.

He spun around, not waiting for a command, just in time to see James grab clothing from the floor and then back up almost to the door, shaking his head.

“James?”

“I can’t—” James didn’t look at him. Put one hand on the doorknob. The hand was shaking; that glorious voice was shaking, too. “I can’t. Please.”

“What—you were—it was good, I’m fine, everything’s fine, why—”

“ _No_ ,” James said, and blinked, and Michael realized that the shine in those eyes wasn’t the artificial brightness of trailer lighting at all, but actual tears, mutely threatening to burst through panicked defensive walls.

He made it to the door in one long stride, and leaned against it, as if turning himself into a physical barricade could somehow keep James from wanting to run away.

James stared at his own hand, hovering on the doorknob, for a second, and then slowly dropped it back to his side.

“James, talk to me. I love you. I’m sorry I—did I do something wrong? Did you not want to—?”

James shook his head again. “No. You’re perfect. You—I love you, too. You didn’t do anything. I promise.”

“Then what? James, please. You—honestly, you’re scaring the hell out of me.” He hadn’t quite meant to admit that, but he’d never seen James look this way before, retreating and withdrawn and almost beaten. He never wanted to see that look again.

His own hands were trembling, terrified as the rest of him, and he forced them into stillness through sheer bloodyminded strength of will. Left them at his sides, even though he wanted to reach out, to touch those rigid shoulders. James looked as if he might break in two, if someone touched him, and he kept staring at the door like it might speak unexpectedly or spontaneously open itself or randomly burst into flame.

But the admission did get James to glance up at him, quickly. “Don’t—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to worry you—”

All right, if that was going to work, he wasn’t above exploiting James’s desire to reassure him. “You _are_ worrying me. Right now. Please talk to me. Please don’t leave me. I can’t—I don’t know what I did. You have to tell me. So it doesn’t happen again.”

James finally focused on him, somewhere in the middle of that frantic confusion of words. Blinked again. “I wouldn’t leave you.”

“You _are_.”  He hadn’t realized, until then, just how badly it’d hurt, seeing James poised to run. From him.

“I’m not…” James swallowed, hard. “I love you. I swear. I—you didn’t—it’s not you. You can stop trying to hide the door behind your back; I won’t go anywhere.”

“Promise me?”

“Yes. I’ll stay. You can’t—you shouldn’t think any of this is your fault.” Another blink; this time one tear actually snuck out and plunged, suicidally, over the edge of a cheekbone. Left a small gleaming track across freckles, in its wake. Michael caught himself blinking, too. The world blurred, momentarily, around them.

“Can I touch you?”

“Maybe…”

“I’d feel better if I could touch you.”

James licked his lips. This one Michael didn’t have a number for. Uncategorized. Full of pain. “You would?”

“ _Yes_.”

“All right.” James didn’t move, but looked at him, soundlessly waiting, and didn’t step back when Michael put both arms around him.

They stood there for an endless minute, still naked because James had let go of his hastily gathered clothing, finally, and Michael had never stopped to put any on. The fabricated bones of the trailer creaked, once, grumbling into a new position. The scattered clothes and sagging couch stayed voiceless, just letting the newborn quiet fade into the chilly afternoon air, the world warily holding its peace around them.

After an eternity, or maybe only a few seconds, Michael felt hands slide up his back, cautiously asking for more, pulling him in closer. He shut his eyes, breathed in the familiar scent of soap and sweat and apple shampoo—and a few strands of curling hair, sneaking up to tickle his mouth—and held James a little more tightly, and _didn’t_ cry.

“I love you,” James said, barely audible, into his shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

“I love you, too. For what?”

“For…scaring you. For making you think that I would—I wouldn’t leave you. Not ever. I just…panicked, I think. You…” James hesitated; the trailer muttered wearily at them again.“I saw you, and that—this—” One hand crept lower. Touched the single pink reminder of what they’d just been doing, the shape of want still barely present on Michael’s skin. “I just can’t—I can’t hurt you, ever—”

“Is _that_ what—you _aren’t_. You wouldn’t. I would tell you. Like you’d tell me, remember?” He tried to keep his voice gentle; James didn’t need to be shouted at.

“No.” The answer was barely above a whisper. But at least it was an answer, Michael thought; at least James was trying to explain. “No. I can’t. I know—I know you’re all right. For now. But I know—I also know what it’s like to not be all right. To be—to get hurt. From this. And I can’t do that. Not to you.”

He listened, frozen in place. The halting words crashed into his chest and broke his heart into tiny pieces. A million of them, just like that. Even more when James added, barely audible, “Does that—does that make sense?” as if he thought that Michael wouldn’t understand. As if he thought that that reason, his reason, wouldn’t be enough somehow.

“James, look at me. I’m so sorry. I didn’t—I didn’t even think about that, I swear, I just wanted to—because you enjoy—and I thought I should try—I understand, I do, I’m sorry, I’m an idiot, I love you, please shout at me now if you need to, all right?”

And James actually almost smiled, through tears, at that last offer, despite lurking pain in his voice, in his face, in the eyes like lightless trenches beneath the surface of the sea. “I’m not going to shout at you. And you’re not an idiot. I know what you were trying to do. And I wanted to, too. I thought I could. Once. One more time. With you. And it _was_ all right, at least at the beginning…”

“Um…you know it was all right for me, too. More than all right. Incredible. Really. I—wait. One _more_ time, you said.”

“I did, yes. Um. I—okay. Are you sure you want to know—”

“Yes. Please.” He was still working hard not to shout; restraint was surprisingly difficult. Not at James. At the nameless person who had left all those past bruises, who had dared to hurt James, ever, catastrophic gaping injuries that had, he was just now realizing, only partially healed, no matter what James tried to say.

“All right, then…when I first realized I might be interested in, um. I didn’t quite know what I wanted, and I thought, well, I must want to be on top, right, that should work better, and I was good at it, which I think maybe you noticed, just now, but that wasn’t—well, you know how much I like _you_ being, um, the dominant one…”

“Yes…” He did know. They both liked that. Or so he’d always thought.

“So when I met someone who figured out that I didn’t want to be in control, not really, it was a—a relief, more than anything. Well, up until it wasn’t, of course.” James paused. Eyed the fog, where it tapped lazily against the window. The greyness waved drifting tendrils back at him, placid and unconcerned.

“Which is more or less why certain things happened. Because he enjoyed watching me give in, for him, because I _was_ good at being in control. It was part of the fun, I think, for him. If that makes sense. And I didn’t know enough to say no, when he wanted things I didn’t—when it stopped being okay.” James kept watching the fog. Breathed in, once, like someone with broken ribs, unsuccessfully avoiding the presence of pain with each inhale. Michael wanted to say something, then. Couldn’t find words.

“And I can’t—you have even less experience with this than I had, or still have, I suppose, because that was it for me, until you, until I wanted to do all these things with you. And now you want—right now I could tell you what to do because obviously I’m still good at that and you wouldn’t stop me and I can’t be the one who hurts you.”

“Fuck, James.” A few sentences, a handful of cracking words, and already more detail than he’d ever gotten before. Those details filled in some of the spaces in that mental picture, and he found himself hating the shape. The air got a little more icy, and the fog, outside, more isolating.

James nearly smiled again, not quite happily. “Oh, well, that’s more or less the problem, right?”

“Don’t. Don’t make jokes about this. You—I should never have asked. You didn’t hurt me. I swear. I know you wouldn’t hurt me. And I—I’m so sorry I—please don’t hate me.” Stupid. So fucking stupid. Of course James wouldn’t be comfortable in that role. He was amazed that they’d gone even as far as they had. The broken little bits of his heart ached, and he didn’t know what he could do, or say, to make things right again.

James bit his lip at that, hard enough to leave visible marks, and Michael breathed, “Don’t do that, please, don’t,” and leaned in to kiss abused skin, instinctively, and stopped himself a millimeter away from making contact, afraid that even that might be asking too much, too soon.

But James whispered back, “It’s all right,” and maybe that meant the sex, or the kissing, or just the bruises chewed into that fragile lip, Michael couldn’t tell, and he opened his mouth to ask which one it was, and James kissed him instead, light as the touch of fog against the windowpanes, outside.

Astonished, he almost forgot to kiss back. He did, though, carefully, marveling at the feeling of warmth in those lips, wounded and wet and still present, offering wordless consolation to both of them. James still wanted to kiss him. Still wanted him.

He couldn’t tell, now, if the continuing ache came from his heart breaking more, because James was trying to comfort him, or from all the fractured pieces beginning to fit themselves together again. Because James was trying to comfort him.

James added, speaking into the kiss, “Did you really ask me not to hate you? Because you know how completely wrong that is. And I _know_ you know I don’t hate you.”

“You might.” For asking. For every movement and sound and sight that’d brought old memories to the surface, bubbling up beneath the thin walls of scar tissue. He knew about those scars, now, more than he’d known before. And he _had_ known they were there. He just hadn’t realized how easily fading fault lines could split apart again, under pressure. More accurately, he hadn’t even thought about it.

Probably James ought to hate him. Clearly he was a terrible person.

“Oh, you are not.”

“…what?” He hadn’t said that out loud, had he?

“You’re not a terrible person. You’re my favorite person. I love you. And you’re not superhuman, as far as I know, and you don’t have to think of everything, and to be honest this—reaction—surprised me, too; when I told you I was fine I thought I meant it. So if _I_ didn’t expect it, then why would _you_?” The eyes met his, straight on, for the first time in what felt like centuries; the rainstorms had cleared away, not entirely, but mostly, leaving behind clear open blueness.

“I love you, too,” Michael said, to that look. James had to know that. Had to. “You—you always know what to say. To make me feel better. And I—if I could do that, too, I’d say the exact right thing to you. The right words. Right now. I’d change the world for you if I could. But I can’t. And it fucking kills me that I can’t. Because I never want you to be hurt, or afraid, if I can help it. Because I _would_ be superhuman for you, if you wanted that. If you wanted a superhero. Because I love you. No matter what.”

And James stared at him, eyes wide, and said, “What do you mean _if_ you could say the right words, those were perfect words, you’re perfect, you’re the best thing that’s ever happened in my life, you know that, and I love you, and you don’t need to change the world for me, you just need to kiss me, _right_ _now_ ,” and Michael found himself almost laughing then, at the force with which those lips met his, eager now and unhesitating and somehow, someway, absurdly, crazily, brilliantly happy again.

And James, laughing too, ran both hands along his back and down to his waist, and then lower, resting them on his hips, and Michael abruptly felt the stirrings of interest, reawakening at all that proximity, all that irrationally beautiful amusement.

He tried to shift positions, slightly; surely James didn’t need to feel that. Wouldn’t be in the mood. But the movement got him a raised eyebrow, and then the hands wandered along his skin, curious, and Michael tried not to move or breathe or do anything that might frighten James away.

“Hmm. Still interested?”

“You—are you?”

And James smiled, slowly but with unmistakable intent, and Michael held his breath. “I might be, yes. I think…I think you should go wait for me on the couch. Legs apart.”

“Really?”

“You’re not going to make me ask twice, are you?”

“Definitely not.” He practically ran the two steps back to the ancient lump of furniture. The familiar cushions accepted his weight, calmly. Good for them. At least someone in the room could be calm.

He watched, hearing the echo of his own heart thumping, as James collected the lube from the pile of clothing on the floor, leisurely, and then paused at his side. “Not quite right, I think. Hands above your head. Holding on. And leave them there.”

He’d had his mouth open to say something, but instantly forgot what. Moved the hands, instead. Buried fingers in worn cloth. The fog, outside, clouded up the window, offering conspiratorial privacy.

James seemed to be thinking about that response, briefly. Then slid to his knees, leaned forward, and licked Michael’s cock, one long stroke of wet tongue against throbbing desire. “Tell me what you want me to do to you.”

“You—can you—you are going to fuck me, right? Please say yes. Um. If you want that, I mean. I do.”

“Mmm…yes. But not yet, I think. You did say you were enjoying this, right? You wanted us to try.”

“Yes. So very much yes. But you—if you aren’t—please don’t do this if you don’t want to.”

“Oh, I want to. At least this one time. Because you’re asking me for it. I think I want you to ask me for it now.”

“Please fuck me,” Michael said promptly, and James laughed. “You really are trying to make this easy for me, aren’t you? Look at you, all desperate. For me.”

He actually hadn’t been trying to make things easy. He would’ve, if he’d thought of it, but truthfully the response had just come out that way. Immediate.

James traced one finger around the base of his cock, and then lower, finding that quivering rim of muscle. Touching, far too playfully. Teasing.

“Please—”

“Please what?” The finger went away. Michael wanted to scream with frustration. “Tell me what you want, or you don’t get anything.”

Oh god, oh, _god_ , James didn’t really mean that, did he? Michael was starting to doubt his own ability to talk, much less give directions.

“I want—you. In. In me. Please.”

“Good. Very polite, too. I like that.”

“Oh god—”

“Not as good. Did I tell you to speak when not being asked a question?” But the finger came back, and apparently James had done something with the lube when he’d been distracted, because the glide of it, inside him, felt effortless, smooth and slick and like everything he was craving. Well, almost everything. _Everything_ would involve James telling him he could finally oh thank god come, which, when had he needed James’s approval for that, again?

James moved the finger. Glanced at his face. Did something else, and suddenly Michael’s vision practically whited out. “Jesus, James—”

“So much blasphemy. What happened to you being polite for me?” Again. And then again, and he felt himself shaking all over, waves of need and ecstasy and electric heat, and he heard himself gasping “Please, _please_ ,” as if from a distance, someone else talking, begging, in a voice utterly dizzy with need.

He did see James smile again, though. He’d always be able to find that smile.

“Better,” James murmured, and that voice went straight to his cock, and he’d lifted one hand, an inadvertent pleading motion, before his brain caught up and realized that that might be a very bad thing to do.

James raised both eyebrows at him. “ _Not_ better. Maybe I should stop. Maybe you don’t really want this, after all.”

He might’ve moaned. Those sounds certainly weren’t anywhere near actual words.

“Well, if you need to move that hand, you can put it to good use. Touch yourself. While I watch.”

He couldn’t help staring at James, at that. They’d never—of course he’d done that before, by himself, everyone had, in private, all those lonely showers while they’d been shooting on different locations, but he couldn’t—

“Yes, you can. And you will. Right now. For me.”

James could apparently read his thoughts, too. Not that there could be anything coherent left in there.

James was looking at him, all intense blue eyes and cool expectance, completely in charge, knowing that Michael would obey him. Wanted to obey him.

He moved the hand; James nodded in approval. “Very good. More.”

He could feel himself blushing—and since when had he ever blushed in bed, hell, what had James managed to do to him?—but he did as ordered. Stroking himself. Intimately. On display.

For James.

Who was evidently not done with him quite yet; a second finger joined the first, stretching him wider, more open, waiting. When the third finger nudged its way inside, Michael forgot how to talk, and then remembered, enough to gasp, “I have to—I’m going to—” He couldn’t wait; he was right there, on that edge, James inside him and his own fingers wrapped around his dripping cock, too much friction to stop now.

“No, you’re not.” Absolute command, steel under that luxurious Scottish purr; and Michael bit the inside of his cheek, hard enough to hurt, but only barely enough to drag himself back from the brink. And then just lay there trying to figure out how to get air back into his lungs.

“Excellent.” The fingers worked their way deeper inside him, and someone was panting, tiny quests for air that seemed to be in short supply all of a sudden, and the someone was him.

“What would you do,” James murmured, not stopping all the relentless motion, “if I asked you to do this, instead? To put your fingers here, to open yourself up for me, on this couch, while I watch you?”

He couldn’t help another small moan, at that. Also couldn’t help the way his legs fell a little further apart, across the comfortable old cushions. Because he would. Yes. If James asked him to.

“Oh, you like that idea? Learning some interesting things about you, today.” James met his eyes, briefly, clearly checking to see whether everything was all right. Michael looked back, as steadily as he could under the circumstances, trying to offer reassurance, trying to show James with total certainty that yes, he was fine. More than fine. Fantastic.

And he must’ve managed to project that thought well enough, because the depths of those oceans, way back behind the blue eyes, warmed at the sight. That warmth spread comfortably out between them, seeping under Michael’s own skin, too. They were _both_ fine.

And then James smiled, suggestive and wicked, and put his free hand on Michael’s cock, _over_ Michael’s own hand, trapping it in place, taking over the motion, controlling that, too.

“Oh, _fuck_ —”

“More?” The hand tightened around his, more pressure, faster strokes, and he meant to answer but then James did something else that sent sparks of lightning all through his body, and the answer got lost in some sort of inarticulate high-pitched noise that was perilously close to a yelp. He’d never even known he could make noises like that.

“That isn’t a yes, as entertaining as that was. Answer me.” No room for disobedience in that tone. Not that he wanted to.

“Yes. _Yes_. Please.” He couldn’t come up with any other words. Speechless. Literally. “You—oh, _god_ —James, you’re amazing, you know—”

And James broke character just long enough to grin at him. “I did tell you I was good at this.”

“You’re fucking _spectacular_ at this—” Even that, that momentary drop back into normality, had been carefully timed, it occurred to him, just enough to push all the overwhelming intensity back a little.

The ocean-current eyes danced, at that. “I think you’re fairly spectacular, yourself. You should see what you look like. All stretched open for me, doing everything I ask you to, so desperate for me to fuck you…”

He honest-to-god whimpered, at that. Trying to imagine how he might look to James, all that trembling need, James’s fingers buried inside him, his own hand still caressing his cock because James hadn’t told him to stop, feeling himself grow wet with it, an exhibition of shameless want.

“Decadent,” James pronounced, satisfied voice proclaiming the adjective as something beyond doubt, incontrovertible. “Next time we’re doing this in front of a mirror. So you can watch.”

Next time? He wanted to ask, tried to, but then James licked his lips again, and this one he dimly registered as number four, seductively elegant flashes of tongue that caused Michael’s brain, or what was left of it, to implode. Or maybe that was from the thought of James following through on that promise. Making him watch, as James took him apart and made him beg.

He might’ve whimpered again.

“I think,” James mused, “you might be ready for me now. Do you think you are? Or would you rather I keep you here—” The fingers, inside him, flexed again. Found that spot, the one that made him shudder and jerk his hips up against the invading hand. “—like this, even longer? Tell me what you want.”

James wanted him to _talk_? But that one was an order; he could hear it.

“I want—I want you. In me. Please.”

“Then I think you should get what you want.” All at once, he found himself devastatingly empty, as James slid the fingers away, and used both hands to push his legs up. “You have been very good, you know. And still so polite. I think you deserve a reward.”

“ _Please_ —”

James laughed. Moved. All the way inside him, in one swift thrust that left him breathless and dizzyingly full and trembling for more, brightness like fireworks exploding under his skin. And then moved again, finding that exact angle, that precise rhythm, and there was nothing left in the world except the feeling of James there with him, inside him, pushing him closer to that edge.

And then James reached up and found his left hand, where he was still obediently holding onto the couch above his head, because he’d forgotten all about even attempting to move that one. Laced their fingers together. Squeezed. Whispered, “Michael, I want you to come for me, now.”

And he did. As commanded. Because James had told him to.

Somewhere in the middle of the exploding-star brilliance, he felt James coming, too, heat that shivered up through him from the inside out. Together.

Once he figured out that he could move again, he maneuvered them around until they were both stretched out across the couch, James more or less on top of him, mostly because he always distantly worried about being too heavy every time he ended up sleeping on top of James.

James didn’t protest. Just put his head on Michael’s shoulder, and shut his eyes. Said, after a second, very quietly, “Still good?”

“Still spectacular.” Michael reached over. Set one finger lightly next to the closest closed eye, not asking James to open them if he didn’t want to. “You?”

A nod; the hair curled up to flirt with Michael’s ear. “Yes.”

“Good.” He used the other hand to rub lazy circles across the bare expanse of James’s back, connecting all the golden freckles, tracing repetitive patterns like some sort of ritual magic, holding James there beside him. “I love you, you know.”

“I know.” James did look at him, voluntarily, this time, eyes soft and contemplative and sincere under the yellowness of the artificial overhead lighting. “I love you, too.”

“Yes. You do. I know you do. You, um. You said…next time. Did you—”

“Not _immediately_ next time. I mean, I still want you to be the one who—who takes control, in the bedroom. I want you to tell me what to do. You know I want that. But maybe. Sometimes. On special occasions.”

“James. Seriously?”

“I think so, yes. If you want me to.”

“Oh, my god,” Michael said, and then, “I love you so damn much,” and then found himself speechless again, for an entirely different reason this time.

“Don’t do that,” James said, and turned his head to kiss Michael’s fingertip, “you’re going to make me cry, too, and I was being so proud of myself for not getting tears all over you, this time, stop that, come on…” and Michael started laughing, instead, and James, also laughing now, leaned over to kiss him on the lips, solid and sweet and yes, utterly spectacular.

And then James caught a glimpse of the clock, over his shoulder, and started looking horrified instead. “Oh, my god, we were supposed to be on set twenty minutes ago…”

“Really?” Obviously neither of them had noticed. Michael couldn’t bring himself to feel guilty about this. Not when James was laughing. Not when James _could_ laugh again.

Because he had, somehow, said or done some sort of right thing after all, or maybe they’d done the right things together, and James was looking at him as if at least some of those scars had never existed. And still laughing.

“Yes!”

“Um…how fast can you get dressed?”

“Not that fast, I have to be able to move before I can get dressed. And….”

“What?”

“You remember how you took my pants off with your mouth…”

“I’m never going to forget that, you realize.”

“Well…me either, actually. But I don’t think I should wear these on camera. I might’ve been a bit excited at the idea.”

“I might be excited _now_.”

“Again? Already? When did you become insatiable, exactly?”

“When did you become some sort of sex god? Oh, wait, that was always…”

“Really not true.”

“Very true. We’re already twenty minutes late; can we make it half an hour? If you want I’ll spill the rest of your coffee on your pants and we can pretend we had a wardrobe emergency.”

“Oh…well, technically we did. Caused by your choice of accessories, this morning. Can I have you on top, this time?”

“You can have anything you want. Always.”

“I want you,” James said, “always,” and pulled him back down into the accepting old couch cushions, and the fog, outside, swirled up around the trailer, keeping them hidden, and surrounded, and secure.

Half an hour turned into almost forty minutes, in the end. Fortunately, Matthew was distracted by the continuing mistiness and consequent lighting problems, and just waved away the excuses without really listening. And still wasn’t listening when James leaned over, halfway through the scene, and whispered, “Michael?”

“Love you. What is it? Are you all right?”

“Love you. And yes, I’m fine. It’s nothing, really…just happy it’s cold today, I think.”

“You are? Why?”

In answer, James pushed up his sleeves. And black leather winked back at them, under the silky caress of the fog.


End file.
